Surviving the Haze
by Blackhole116
Summary: This is a collection of White Collar fics I wrote for Last Author Standing. The first one involves a hurt Neal trying to get help. I hope you enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

Neal repeatedly blinked his eyes as he awoke into a bubble of haziness and pressed his fingers against the bright spots behind his eyelids. Someone had moved his heart muscle into his head and he could feel every forceful pump. He lowered his head back to the ground but there was no relief from the angry thudding. He stared at the smudged orange-red colour, painted rust on his skin; he was bleeding. Neal assessed himself, trying to let his eyes do the work without moving his head. Correction; he was bleeding badly. And he could barely move- he needed help.

Neal remembers being on the roof of a museum filled to the top-hat with police. He wasn't stranded then; he used his lithe athleticism and physical prowess to slink and slide down and across buildings and away into the darkness.

"Hey, I need some help over here." Neal winced as his shouted words echoed in march formation through his head, stomping in the salt.. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to call out again, and again. No one came. Neal was alone in this place.

Neal remembers being on a plane with marshals combing through it; for a young brilliant blue-eyed art thief. He wasn't stranded then; he used his charms, charisma and wiles to blend right in with the in-flight crew; making it appear as though he had been with them for years.

Ideas sink too quickly, losing solid footing in the haze-softened undergrowth. What happened? And where is he? How is he hurt? How stop pain? How get help? What do? Do something? Peter, need Peter.

Neal remembers, Neal remembers, remembers Venice- trapped- reds, gold's; rug; two-hundred thousand dollars- trapped. He wasn't stranded then; he used his skilled mind to get him out of the situation.

He sits on the cliff-edge of sleep; lying idly in a cloud of fuzz- drifting, except pain registers- nudging insistently against the will to slip off of the edge into blissful slumber. He is going to die; it is an absent thought flitting away almost as quickly as it came- no room for processing in the hazy struggle for survival.

Neal has never been stranded because he has always had an array of tools at his disposal. At this moment his mind is barely usable- sitting sticky and soft like mash potatoes, his body can't sit up let alone run or climb or jump, and there's no one around to hear his gentle cajoles. His tools are gone but he still refuses to be stranded now- in this abandoned parking lot.

Focus, just need to focus. What first? First Peter. Get Peter. Peter will know what to do.

"Peter."

No, Peter's not here. What do? What do? Phone! Phone Peter. Where's phone? Phone gone. No Peter. Need Peter. Need sleep.

No! Focus! Get somewhere. Get to people. Get help. Where now? I'm here. Where's here? Look, it's here. I remember here. Parking lot of diner. Diner with turquoise stools. Mary's, no Marcie's. Marcie's diner.

Neal remembers going to Marcie's diner for an early breakfast, after spending all night on a case. He was being lead to a table against the East wall and suddenly his anklet started beeping shrilly and blinking bright red. He had taken a seat on the west side of the place and just smiled charmingly at the staff- who eyed him with wary suspicion- throughout his meal.

He smiles. At the edge of radius. Get out of radius. Peter will come. Which way? That way. Move. Move now.

Neal thrusts himself forwards along the ground. His head and torso protest violently- sending agonising tendrils out to wrack his entire body. He takes a few shuddering breaths and forces himself to move again. The radius edge is eight feet away- maybe ten; it feels impossibly far.

He continues to pull himself along, one small haltering movement after the other. Staring at the invisible line he needs to reach; failing to take comfort in getting closer.

Move right arm. Move left arm. Move right leg. Move left leg. Shove self. Breathe. Breathe. Wait for stampede in head to calm. Repeat.

Pain engulfs him; whitening out his vision and freezing his trembling limbs. He lies there motionless.

Four feet from help and Neal has never felt so stranded in his life.

"Peter." He whimpers. The thought of Peter drives him on; he makes another half-drag half-crawl motion.

Then pauses. It's only a pause, he's not going to stop; he has to be almost there by now. Except he's more dizzy and tingly and weak than he has ever been before; and it's not like Neal hasn't had some rough moments; it's almost like he has fallen out of his own skin. He moves again, ignoring the screaming in his head, the monster green anklet light glowers fiercely, taking over his vision and he gives himself one final push before everything fades away.

Peter rushes to call the nurse as Neal's eyes drift open.

"Peter! You came!" Neal says with the same excited voice he used when he was drugged up in the Howser clinic; clearly showing the effects of the pain meds he's on.

"Fourth time I caught you." Peter jokes.

Neal chuckles; taking comfort from the old bit.

"That was impressive thinking- pulling yourself out of your radius."

"You think that was impressive?" He asks incredulously.

"Not for fit and healthy you, but considering what the doctor said; that most people with your head injuries wouldn't remain conscious, let alone be able to string together a cogent thought; yeah- damn impressive."

"I guess." Neal replies, falling back to sleep he mutters a few simple words;

"I knew you wouldn't leave me stranded Peter."


	2. Existence

Lights-out was hours ago and yet he continues to force his eyes wide open. Every time he shuts them fiery explosions dance mockingly on his eye-lids. Then when he opens them again he imagines that the tally marks he has drawn on the wall are birthday candles marking the days since Kate's death. It makes no sense but he has always had an over-active imagination.

Neal used to appreciate his imagination; it was an asset during a con; a must when producing a forgery and a friend during four years in a lonesome prison cell. But now it taunted and haunted him relentlessly and had endless time to do so. The higher-thinking (somewhat impulsive) rationality he usually subscribed to had understandingly taken a running leap and all he could see were engulfing fires and cold metal doors being slammed in his face. Metal doors that lead to carousels of 'what if's', maybe's and what now's, circling him in time with Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata (Kate's favourite piece).

He wasn't sure he could live without Kate- not just because of the pain- he wasn't sure he could exist without her. So much of who he was, was intrinsic to Kate; everything he had done, everything he had become was for her; the cons, the F.B.I work, what was he without them? Just a no-name kid stuck in prison with a bunch of (much bigger and stronger) guys he put here.

Neal knew he couldn't go back to a life of crime; he wouldn't do that to Peter or El. But how could he go straight without Kate by his side, he would surely fail- he would become nothing. It may sound naive but he thinks he will love Kate forever. He can imagine the future, the next fifty or sixty years- not living just existing. That is all he thinks he is capable of anymore- even as logic tells him otherwise- tells him he will heal in time. Existence seems to be the only course.

After making the deal with Peter again and leaving prison to help catch criminals, he realised existing wasn't so bad- he was numb to the problems of reality; smiling a lie with his face and body, existing inside a shell of living. In the past, most of his expressions during a con still came from a genuine place- that's what made him so great at what he did, this was different but nothing he couldn't excel at. He carried on existing, painting smiles into his cerulean irises; one foot in front of the other- one con at a time- going through the motions- every other cliché. It's almost peaceful, having no life to live.

Catching this bank-robber will require information and who better to acquire it from than said bank-robber's personal assistant. Finding Whitney and bumping into her accidentally on purpose doesn't take more effort than walking a dog and in a moment he's sitting with her. Neal smooth-talks Whitney with all his usual finesse and none of his usual feeling. When he has gotten her Sim card cloned he proceeds to get rid of her in a manner that is far less suave and sophisticated and far more self-deprecating than usual but he can't bring himself to care.

Of course sneaky bank-robber had put a false entry into the phone just to play with them, who wouldn't. Something twists inside him as he watches Peter get reamed for wasting time and resources.

Sitting at Peter's table, drinking one of Peter's beers, he thinks about their situation; Peter has egg on his face because Neal let himself get played. Now they've been pulled off of the case and Peter's in trouble because Neal wasn't paying enough attention; just going through the motions. He hates that he has let Peter down.

Neal comes to a realisation. He half-turns towards Peter, to say what needs to be said;

"There's something you should know. When we were at the hanger that day, before ... everything happened, I was going to tell you something."

"What?"

Neal waits until Peter is standing in front of him to continue; partly because he needs to say this to Peter's face and partly to collect himself and his thoughts.

"I didn't want to run anymore, if I'd gotten on that plane- regardless of whatever deal was made- it wouldn't have felt like freedom."

"Why?"

"Because it was an escape. You're right Peter; I have a life here; if there was something you could've done to protect Kate I know you would've."

"I would've."

He realises he cannot just exist, he has to make a choice and even though he knows it will mean being torn into ribbons of stray muscle and bone every hour of every day for the foreseeable future, Neal makes the choice to live.


End file.
